Birds are definitely on the move south. The little cinnamon-green hummers - Rufous, by name, are now few and far between in southwest Washington state. I have a feeder just outside my office window where I (and the cat) can watch these little guys mob the four feeding perches. Usually. Not this year, though. For some reason, hummers weren't using feeders to the usual extent this year. I read that this has been a common experience on the state-wide birder email server. And now they appear to have moved south on their annual journey to warmer places.
Our garden is full of hummer-friendly plantings, and the pugnacious little guys were everywhere, competing among themselves and with the Anna's, the other resident hummer. Our escallonia, a flowering shrub/tree, fills with clusters of pink blooms every year. The hummers love this tree. It also has twisty, dense branches that discourage predators. It's food and home all in one. Still, they always used to make the trip around the house for an easy meal at the feeder.
The Anna's on the other hand, spend the full year here. These are greener looking hummers, and the males' gorgets, or throat plates, are a vivid maroon when they catch the light. Stunning. They do spend the winter here, and do well, regardless of the presence of feeders. They've been doing it long before we humans became aware of them.
Earlier in the year, I wrote about the Anna's surviving temperatures of eighteen degrees, with snow. They drop their metabolism and simply roost in a protected place. When the sun comes up, they begin to move slowly, slowly, then shake a bit, ridding themselves of accumulated snow, and off they go. I keep the feeder full and warm just for a treat for them. They survive on insects mainly, found under bark and elsewhere on trees.
As I type, an immature Anna's just briefly checked out the feeder. His, or her, color is still undefined, lots of gray mixed in with white and brown/green. So tiny, and their feet- delicate perfect black toes, almost hairlike. I love the way most birds neatly tuck feet and legs back when flying, then extend them just perfectly when landing. A small thing, but a gift to observe, I think.
As the days shorten and the rains begin, I'll watch for the Anna's at the feeder. I'll watch for them to leave the protected L of the house where the eucalyptus grows and where they shelter, next to the chimney. I'll look forward to their buzzing-around-my-head demands when I go out in the cold to refresh their feeder. Even if it's raining, there is a wild thing or two to bring joy.
Thoughts on another resident bird.
Dee Dee
Tiny masked face in the pine
Bright bead eye
Follows my measured moves
As I fill the feeder.
Winter Sunset, Loomis Outlet
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Monday, August 22, 2011
Brown Pelicans on the move.
Another sure sign of fall: the brown pelicans are gathering into groups. I've been seeing them at the north end of the bridge over the Columbia River, gliding on the thermals near the water, ancient silhouettes in the sunset. These brown pelicans spend the winter in Mexico and farther south. I've seen them at the river's mouth, lounging in the boat basin in San Blas, Nayarit, Mexico, in January. They keep company with the frigate birds, enormous black sea-going birds that are only seen on land during breeding season. They look like folded black umbrellas, roosting in the palms in the hot sun.
Whether you're a believer in climate change or not, something has caused the pelicans to risk spending the past few winters up north. Not so much this past year, but the one prior to that, we had huge numbers of wintering pelicans. They did not do well. It was warm at first, rainy but not cold. Then the weather got serious and the pelicans suffered. They're not built for the cold, and somehow, once migration time is over, the impulse is lost.
At the wildlife center, we started to see pelicans brought in who were starving. The way you can tell a malnourished bird is by the keel bone, or breast bone. Birds should have plump breast muscle on both sides, so that the keel bone is there, but you have to dig a bit to find it. These had protuberant keel bones; they had been hungry for awhile. We had pelicans who had frozen feet. The sickest pelicans developed frost bite on the delicate webbing between their long toes. That webbing helps them to swim, forming efficient paddles of their big feet. On these unlucky birds, we had to wait until the flesh died off completely, then carefully cut off the dead tissue with manicure scissors. Pelicans aren't fond of holding still for such procedures, so it usually took three of us to hold and snip.
Pelicans live with parasitic lice in their mouths. Every bird that came in needed to be treated for feather lice, then for oral lice. One volunteer held the bird, and if possible, held the bill open. If it was a rambunctious bird, another volunteer held the bill open, while a third, using long forceps, carefully picked the black bugs from the mouth and dropped them in water. Each bird doesn't have many, maybe ten or so, but pelican breath isn't the most pleasant, plus those birds are strong! They would watch us with large dark eyes, as we held their heads in gloved hands.
We would let them have free range in the center once they felt OK, so that they could walk around and use their muscles, get used to altered feet. They learned very quickly that humans mean food, so as you would pass by a pelican, you would have to be on the lookout for a solid prod in the backside by one of those huge bills if you didn't have a fish as a peace offering. They put away a lot of fish; if you think of a kitty litter box full of water and ten inch fish, that was one meal of two for each pelican, each day.
Fortunately, once they were together in the outside pen, they became quite wild again, avoiding the humans as much as possible.
As fall comes on, I watch the flocks of pelicans and hope that they will follow their instinct to go south. Long skeins of them, wings fixed, gliding just over the water, moving as a body up and down with the waves, pterodactyl faces, so beautiful.
Whether you're a believer in climate change or not, something has caused the pelicans to risk spending the past few winters up north. Not so much this past year, but the one prior to that, we had huge numbers of wintering pelicans. They did not do well. It was warm at first, rainy but not cold. Then the weather got serious and the pelicans suffered. They're not built for the cold, and somehow, once migration time is over, the impulse is lost.
At the wildlife center, we started to see pelicans brought in who were starving. The way you can tell a malnourished bird is by the keel bone, or breast bone. Birds should have plump breast muscle on both sides, so that the keel bone is there, but you have to dig a bit to find it. These had protuberant keel bones; they had been hungry for awhile. We had pelicans who had frozen feet. The sickest pelicans developed frost bite on the delicate webbing between their long toes. That webbing helps them to swim, forming efficient paddles of their big feet. On these unlucky birds, we had to wait until the flesh died off completely, then carefully cut off the dead tissue with manicure scissors. Pelicans aren't fond of holding still for such procedures, so it usually took three of us to hold and snip.
Pelicans live with parasitic lice in their mouths. Every bird that came in needed to be treated for feather lice, then for oral lice. One volunteer held the bird, and if possible, held the bill open. If it was a rambunctious bird, another volunteer held the bill open, while a third, using long forceps, carefully picked the black bugs from the mouth and dropped them in water. Each bird doesn't have many, maybe ten or so, but pelican breath isn't the most pleasant, plus those birds are strong! They would watch us with large dark eyes, as we held their heads in gloved hands.
We would let them have free range in the center once they felt OK, so that they could walk around and use their muscles, get used to altered feet. They learned very quickly that humans mean food, so as you would pass by a pelican, you would have to be on the lookout for a solid prod in the backside by one of those huge bills if you didn't have a fish as a peace offering. They put away a lot of fish; if you think of a kitty litter box full of water and ten inch fish, that was one meal of two for each pelican, each day.
Fortunately, once they were together in the outside pen, they became quite wild again, avoiding the humans as much as possible.
As fall comes on, I watch the flocks of pelicans and hope that they will follow their instinct to go south. Long skeins of them, wings fixed, gliding just over the water, moving as a body up and down with the waves, pterodactyl faces, so beautiful.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Fawns in the Spring
I meant to write about the deer earlier, when you could still see a mother with delicate spotted babies in the fields. Those babies are getting tall and strong now, readying for the coming winter. But when they're little - oh my!
Again, my best experiences are from the wildlife rehab center. Getting ready for the fawns would begin in March or April. Sometimes we would have a very early little one who might have been exposed to the wind and rain, depending on what happened to its mother. So we needed to be ready.
Getting ready means being sure that the outdoor enclosure is in good repair with no breaks in the wire, no leaks in the overhead shelter. We look for hazards for small hooves and large eyes, such as loose strands of barbed wire, metal buckets, whatever. The feeder stand has to be cleaned and ready. Not sure if I can explain this ingenious setup, but it basically holds baby bottles at just the right height and angle for the fawns to feed. Of course, the correct milk formula has to be purchased, too. I didn't realize how many specialty milk mixes exist.
The circumstances that bring fawns to the wildlife center usually involve the death or disappearance of the mother deer. Usually it's a car versus deer situation. The State Police are wonderful about bringing the little ones in, or one of us my need to go rescue it. The few I've rescued helped me understand why people keep them as pets. Huge mistake, but more about that later. The very young ones have no fear of humans. When picked up, a tiny fawn will snuggle trustingly against you, its firm, intense little body warm and close, racing heartbeat next to your own. Legs go everywhere, and care must be taken not to snap a delicate bone. Silky head tips back in curiosity and bottomless brown eyes study you. Pretty cute stuff.
At the center, the fawns are kept together (they like the company) and fed often. They make a high-pitched squeaking sound, sort of like a squeezy toy. They can smell the milk formula a mile away and at mealtime, there is much prancing, bucking and squeaking until avid little muzzles fasten on the bottle nipples. Hang on tight, because part of the fun for the fawn is to butt the bottle several times during a meal. Eyes half-close in happiness and milk dribbles down chins. Except for lots of slurping sounds, all is very quiet for a few minutes. We have to watch that each fawn gets enough to eat, because usually there are fawns whose ages span a month or so. As with human kids, there can be shy ones, weaker ones, ones to tend to bully and push. Chins are wiped after the meal - I don't know if the mother deer does this function or not. Maybe eating from the real source isn't so messy. With very young fawns, stimulation is needed for their bowels to work efficiently. A damp warm cloth is used to stroke the lower back and around under the tail. We try to mimic what mom would do in the wild. It seems to work just fine.
The very best thing about the fawns is watching them walk on the concrete flooring in the center. They look just like petite, four-year-old girls trying on mom's high heels. Little hooves click as they lift their feet high and place them carefully. They define the word 'prance'. It's lovely.
Once they're big enough and the weather is reliably warm, they are moved outside to the big shelter. This is when the feeder stand is used. It has at least two purposes. Once its loaded - however many bottles needed are inserted - all the fawns can eat at once. And, it keeps the fawns from seeing people as the food source. As soon as they can eat efficiently from the feeder, we're out of the picture. No petting or naming the deer either. In the wild, these deer will need to maintain a healthy respect for humans. Deer hunting is a necessary reality, but I'd hate to have tamed a fawn to the point where it would walk up to an armed hunter. Also, fully grown deer, especially males, can be dangerous. Even if they don't mean to be aggressive, their hooves are extremely sharp and can do damage. It's cute when a tiny fawn puts his feet on someone's shoulders, not so much when it's an adult.
The center sits on well over one hundred acres of wooded land, and so far the deer have been released there, or on neighboring farms.
It's a great feeling to be driving or walking the access road and see shy deer faces gazing from the deep woods.
"...Far off from here the slender
Flocks of the mountain forest
Move among stems like towers
Of the old redwoods to the stream,
No twig crackling; dip shy
Wild muzzles into the mountain water
Among the dark ferns..."
from Night
Robinson Jeffers
Again, my best experiences are from the wildlife rehab center. Getting ready for the fawns would begin in March or April. Sometimes we would have a very early little one who might have been exposed to the wind and rain, depending on what happened to its mother. So we needed to be ready.
Getting ready means being sure that the outdoor enclosure is in good repair with no breaks in the wire, no leaks in the overhead shelter. We look for hazards for small hooves and large eyes, such as loose strands of barbed wire, metal buckets, whatever. The feeder stand has to be cleaned and ready. Not sure if I can explain this ingenious setup, but it basically holds baby bottles at just the right height and angle for the fawns to feed. Of course, the correct milk formula has to be purchased, too. I didn't realize how many specialty milk mixes exist.
The circumstances that bring fawns to the wildlife center usually involve the death or disappearance of the mother deer. Usually it's a car versus deer situation. The State Police are wonderful about bringing the little ones in, or one of us my need to go rescue it. The few I've rescued helped me understand why people keep them as pets. Huge mistake, but more about that later. The very young ones have no fear of humans. When picked up, a tiny fawn will snuggle trustingly against you, its firm, intense little body warm and close, racing heartbeat next to your own. Legs go everywhere, and care must be taken not to snap a delicate bone. Silky head tips back in curiosity and bottomless brown eyes study you. Pretty cute stuff.
At the center, the fawns are kept together (they like the company) and fed often. They make a high-pitched squeaking sound, sort of like a squeezy toy. They can smell the milk formula a mile away and at mealtime, there is much prancing, bucking and squeaking until avid little muzzles fasten on the bottle nipples. Hang on tight, because part of the fun for the fawn is to butt the bottle several times during a meal. Eyes half-close in happiness and milk dribbles down chins. Except for lots of slurping sounds, all is very quiet for a few minutes. We have to watch that each fawn gets enough to eat, because usually there are fawns whose ages span a month or so. As with human kids, there can be shy ones, weaker ones, ones to tend to bully and push. Chins are wiped after the meal - I don't know if the mother deer does this function or not. Maybe eating from the real source isn't so messy. With very young fawns, stimulation is needed for their bowels to work efficiently. A damp warm cloth is used to stroke the lower back and around under the tail. We try to mimic what mom would do in the wild. It seems to work just fine.
The very best thing about the fawns is watching them walk on the concrete flooring in the center. They look just like petite, four-year-old girls trying on mom's high heels. Little hooves click as they lift their feet high and place them carefully. They define the word 'prance'. It's lovely.
Once they're big enough and the weather is reliably warm, they are moved outside to the big shelter. This is when the feeder stand is used. It has at least two purposes. Once its loaded - however many bottles needed are inserted - all the fawns can eat at once. And, it keeps the fawns from seeing people as the food source. As soon as they can eat efficiently from the feeder, we're out of the picture. No petting or naming the deer either. In the wild, these deer will need to maintain a healthy respect for humans. Deer hunting is a necessary reality, but I'd hate to have tamed a fawn to the point where it would walk up to an armed hunter. Also, fully grown deer, especially males, can be dangerous. Even if they don't mean to be aggressive, their hooves are extremely sharp and can do damage. It's cute when a tiny fawn puts his feet on someone's shoulders, not so much when it's an adult.
The center sits on well over one hundred acres of wooded land, and so far the deer have been released there, or on neighboring farms.
It's a great feeling to be driving or walking the access road and see shy deer faces gazing from the deep woods.
"...Far off from here the slender
Flocks of the mountain forest
Move among stems like towers
Of the old redwoods to the stream,
No twig crackling; dip shy
Wild muzzles into the mountain water
Among the dark ferns..."
from Night
Robinson Jeffers
Friday, August 12, 2011
Bear Sightings
There was a photo on Facebook the other day of a young black bear that had been killed on the highway just up the road. By his size he looked like a yearling: smallish, maybe the size of a really big dog. Glossy black fur, rounded ears, he looked very sad and vulnerable lying on the side of the road by the Baptist church.
I absolutely dread hitting a critter. Almost worse than killing them is injuring them and causing pain that I can't fix. It's tempting to carry a pistol just to be able to put some poor thing out of its pain and misery. Deer, elk, bears, raccoons, opossums, the list is endless up here for road casualties.
On the lighter side, bears do come through our yard. We've kept what's called a wildlife corridor down by the water, so that bears, deer and such can move under cover from the wooded wetland north of us to the one south of us. Of course, they have to negotiate the road in front of our house. Few of them are willing to go through the water conduit that passes under the road. It's plenty big, but even mother ducks will risk the road instead. Not sure why. Maybe because it's contained and close.
We've had to move the bird feeders in our yard to high branches of the trees. One night I woke up about three a.m. for some reason and wandered out to the living room. The motion light for the front was on so I looked out to see two bears trying for the bird feeders. One was reaching his ultimate yoga stretch up, the other was trying to climb out on a too-thin limb. First I raced in and woke my husband, scaring him half to death. I didn't want him to miss it. Then I got two pans, opened the front door and banged them together and yelled. That did the job. It made me feel kind of bad - food is hard work for bears up here. But they can become total nuisances if you feed them. They start bringing friends and family to the feast. One retired couple farther north was spending a fortune feeding a bunch of bears, plus all the neighbors were mad at them. They couldn't go out in their yards for fear of encountering one or several. Fish and Wildlife put a stop to it.
My friend was golfing on the course north of here and saw a mother and cubs at a distance on the isolated 8th hole. She left her ball and headed out of there.
I guess if there's a point to this, it's that this really was the bears' territory first. They can be scary nuisances, but they're trying to make a living too. We leave precious little for them sometimes. If you weigh several hundred pounds and eat berries, you're going to need to roam a bit to find enough to get by. My plea is that we don't just immediately decide to kill them. Sometimes that 's the only sad solution, but avoiding creating a problem in the first place can be effective. No garbage, no dog food, no bird seed, it just takes awareness and we can continue to share the earth for awhile longer.
I absolutely dread hitting a critter. Almost worse than killing them is injuring them and causing pain that I can't fix. It's tempting to carry a pistol just to be able to put some poor thing out of its pain and misery. Deer, elk, bears, raccoons, opossums, the list is endless up here for road casualties.
On the lighter side, bears do come through our yard. We've kept what's called a wildlife corridor down by the water, so that bears, deer and such can move under cover from the wooded wetland north of us to the one south of us. Of course, they have to negotiate the road in front of our house. Few of them are willing to go through the water conduit that passes under the road. It's plenty big, but even mother ducks will risk the road instead. Not sure why. Maybe because it's contained and close.
We've had to move the bird feeders in our yard to high branches of the trees. One night I woke up about three a.m. for some reason and wandered out to the living room. The motion light for the front was on so I looked out to see two bears trying for the bird feeders. One was reaching his ultimate yoga stretch up, the other was trying to climb out on a too-thin limb. First I raced in and woke my husband, scaring him half to death. I didn't want him to miss it. Then I got two pans, opened the front door and banged them together and yelled. That did the job. It made me feel kind of bad - food is hard work for bears up here. But they can become total nuisances if you feed them. They start bringing friends and family to the feast. One retired couple farther north was spending a fortune feeding a bunch of bears, plus all the neighbors were mad at them. They couldn't go out in their yards for fear of encountering one or several. Fish and Wildlife put a stop to it.
My friend was golfing on the course north of here and saw a mother and cubs at a distance on the isolated 8th hole. She left her ball and headed out of there.
I guess if there's a point to this, it's that this really was the bears' territory first. They can be scary nuisances, but they're trying to make a living too. We leave precious little for them sometimes. If you weigh several hundred pounds and eat berries, you're going to need to roam a bit to find enough to get by. My plea is that we don't just immediately decide to kill them. Sometimes that 's the only sad solution, but avoiding creating a problem in the first place can be effective. No garbage, no dog food, no bird seed, it just takes awareness and we can continue to share the earth for awhile longer.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Swift Time
Even at this high point of summer, fall is in the air. It seems early, but migration is well under way. If you go to the lighthouse and scope the horizon, literally tens of thousands of sea- and shore birds are on the move. It's reassuring to see all those numbers.
On shore, the Vaux's swifts are beginning to gather into wispy clouds each evening. (Oddly, their name is pronounced "Vox" after William Vaux. Mr. Vaux was a friend of John Townsend who explored the NW and named this little gray-black bird in honor of his friend back East.)
Anyway, these small birds with the scythe-like wings have been spending the summer up here, nesting and raising young. As the days shorten, the urge comes upon them to gather again for the migration south. Swifts disperse during the day but as evening approaches, they begin to mass together. The absolutely best part of this is that they select defunct or non-operating chimneys for their communal roosts, and we can watch the process.
As the sky darkens, wisps and more wisps of these fluttering, flittering little birds gather around the chimney of choice. They use the same place year after year, if possible. Every night there are more. If you live in or near a town in the northwest, there are often "Vaux's Swift" nights where local birding groups hold info sessions and people gather with picnic dinners to enjoy the spectacle.
I volunteered with Portland Audubon at Chapman School in NW Portland for this annual event. There is a great, old-fashioned feeling of summer slowly pouring away, as the swifts pour into that tall chimney. Kid run and play in the park, parents eat or sip wine on the slope facing the school, dogs run circles around it all. We volunteers have a great time showing off little swift specimens and hopefully, partially demystifying this experience with wildlife.
It's usually close to ten by the time the swifts get serious. Before this, small groups sally closer and closer to the mouth of the chimney, some actually dart in then out again. It's really great if there's a moon in the sky: tiny dark bodies flickering over the moon's bright face. Oohs and aahs abound. Once in a while a raptor gets the brilliant idea that here is an easy meal to be had. A Cooper's hawk or sharp-shinned hawk will perch right on the lip of the chimney. Drama!! Again, nature red in tooth and claw. You can root for the swifts or root for the hawk who has to work hard for a living. Nature decides it.
There is a moment that seems like any other, but for the birds, it's bed time. The smoky swirling in the sky over the chimney thickens and thickens. Moving gracefully, beautifully, the swifts are one body, eddying quickly down through the mouth for the night. There are so many that you think it will never end. Thousands and thousands drop down to roost. Finally, a few late-comers zip in and it's over. Silent and dark. Then there's a collective sigh from the crowd. As people begin to gather up to go, everyone is kind of quiet, as if they don't want to wake the birds.
I hope maybe it's reverence and gratitude for having been able to witness this small miracle.
On shore, the Vaux's swifts are beginning to gather into wispy clouds each evening. (Oddly, their name is pronounced "Vox" after William Vaux. Mr. Vaux was a friend of John Townsend who explored the NW and named this little gray-black bird in honor of his friend back East.)
Anyway, these small birds with the scythe-like wings have been spending the summer up here, nesting and raising young. As the days shorten, the urge comes upon them to gather again for the migration south. Swifts disperse during the day but as evening approaches, they begin to mass together. The absolutely best part of this is that they select defunct or non-operating chimneys for their communal roosts, and we can watch the process.
As the sky darkens, wisps and more wisps of these fluttering, flittering little birds gather around the chimney of choice. They use the same place year after year, if possible. Every night there are more. If you live in or near a town in the northwest, there are often "Vaux's Swift" nights where local birding groups hold info sessions and people gather with picnic dinners to enjoy the spectacle.
I volunteered with Portland Audubon at Chapman School in NW Portland for this annual event. There is a great, old-fashioned feeling of summer slowly pouring away, as the swifts pour into that tall chimney. Kid run and play in the park, parents eat or sip wine on the slope facing the school, dogs run circles around it all. We volunteers have a great time showing off little swift specimens and hopefully, partially demystifying this experience with wildlife.
It's usually close to ten by the time the swifts get serious. Before this, small groups sally closer and closer to the mouth of the chimney, some actually dart in then out again. It's really great if there's a moon in the sky: tiny dark bodies flickering over the moon's bright face. Oohs and aahs abound. Once in a while a raptor gets the brilliant idea that here is an easy meal to be had. A Cooper's hawk or sharp-shinned hawk will perch right on the lip of the chimney. Drama!! Again, nature red in tooth and claw. You can root for the swifts or root for the hawk who has to work hard for a living. Nature decides it.
There is a moment that seems like any other, but for the birds, it's bed time. The smoky swirling in the sky over the chimney thickens and thickens. Moving gracefully, beautifully, the swifts are one body, eddying quickly down through the mouth for the night. There are so many that you think it will never end. Thousands and thousands drop down to roost. Finally, a few late-comers zip in and it's over. Silent and dark. Then there's a collective sigh from the crowd. As people begin to gather up to go, everyone is kind of quiet, as if they don't want to wake the birds.
I hope maybe it's reverence and gratitude for having been able to witness this small miracle.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Heartwood
Here's a story I wrote. It provides background into some of the events that shaped this bird lover and writer.
It tells of a treasured part of my childhood.
Heartwood
"It seemed to me, as I kept remembering all this, that those times and and those summers had been infinitely precious and worth saving. There had been jollity and peace and goodness."
Once More to the Lake E. B. White
The big Chevy pickup bumped slowly along the uneven Forest Service road. My cousin, Larry, his wife Mary and I were squeezed into the front cab. It was a hot, beautiful early August day in the Highwood Hills.
"You know, Suz, there's no guarantee the cabin's still standing. It could have been torn down or couldn've fallen down by now," Larry said. He glanced at me quickly, taking his eyes from the uneven road. "Florence and George's kids sold off the lease a few years after they died."
Empty MacDonald's sacks, all that remained of lunch, rattled under my feet. Mary held a Pepsi high to keep it from spilling as we rocked along the washboard road. We were thirty miles from Great Falls, Montana, surrounded by wild land. Quaking aspens leaned over the gravel road, their green leaves trembling in the warm wind. Fields of wild flowers nodded in drifts of yellow, purple and blue. A sapsucker hammered a fencepost near the road. Red head flashing, he peered around the post as we rumbled past. Steep hills rose around us in every direction with dark fir groves lining the canyons between. Sparkling creeks ran carelessly over low spots in the road; fords that now looked innocent and inviting.
"We're getting close. There's the old ranger's cabin. Remember how he used to ride by on the big Palomino?" Larry pointed to a tiny rustic cabin tucked into the trees on the left.
I leaned forward in my seat, trying hard to see around the next bend, at the same time reluctant to see what might have changed. I swallowed the lump in my throat.
**
I was nine years old in 1955, the first summer my mother sent me to her sister and brother-in-law in Great Falls. I was a quiet, bookish kid. I had spent little time outdoors at home in Oregon, due in part to a mother whose protective instincts could make a cow moose look careless. And home was not a very happy place. In Montana, things were diffenent. I didn't think much about the difference, I just knew I loved being there.
My cousin, Larry, was seventeen. I thought he looked just like a movie star. He wore white jeans and white T-shirts with the sleeves rolled up to show his biceps. He drove a convertible, had a girlfriend named Sally (with a ponytail like mine), and they could do the swing. His life seemed full of parties by the river, dances and general hell-raising. "Hey, Suz," he would say, flashing his white smile and giving my hair a gentle tug as he breezed into the cool house after his summer job. He couldn't have been more exotic.
His mother, Edna was my mother's elder sister. She was soft spoken, gentle, witty and had a sweet laugh I could listen to forever. I'm told that I'm a lot like Edna now- I'm happy with that. She did her housework wearing my father's castoff rayon bowling shirts over her old dresses. My mother used to include the shirts in our Christmas boxes, for some reason. I can still see Edna, dust rag in hand, humming around the dining room in a faded yellow shirt, Chet embroidered on the left breast pocket and Schumaker Optical scrolled in green on her back.
My uncle's name was Clifford, but we always called him Uncle Lover. Not even Larry remembers the origin of that nickname. Another family mystery. Cliff was a gentlemanly Welshman who seemed incapable of committing any impropriety. Yet Uncle Lover he was, looking very much like David Niven strolling home down the shaded backyard path after a day's work at Montana Hardware.
Close friends of Edna and Cliff held a ninety-nine year lease on a cabin on Federal forest land in the Highwoods, a ridge of wooded mountains outside of Great Falls. My first visit there was over the July 4th weekend that summer of 1955. The cabin is a little less than an hour's drive from Great Falls, but for me it was a trip into a new and beautiful world. Driving the shady, forested road to Florence and George's cabin that first time: it opened my eyes and heart to the peaceful woods- a place I've held dear ever since.
The cabin is nestled in a small grove of aspens, backed by a steep slope where fir and pine make an orderly march down to the creek that runs along the east side of the property. A fire ring waits out back, complete with a circle of stump seats. When evening fell and the fire came alive, we would step out of the firelight to see the bats circle and hear nighthawks cry as they threaded among the stars. There was pine smell mixed with wood smoke and bacon, mousy scurrying noises that may have been mice but probably were my cousins trying to scare Edna. There was laughing, card playing, fishing, cooking and eating. There was jollity, peace and goodness.
I visited the cabin every summer for a handful of years. I was in my early teens the summer of my last visit and I hadn't been back to Montana since then. But the gift of the peaceful woods was one that I have treasured all of my life.
**
I picked up the phone one day a fewmonths ago, and heard "Hey, Suz". Almost forty years evaporated in the time it took to take a breath. Larry and I spent two hours catching up.
"I want to come and see you." It was out of my mouth before I could think too hard about it.
"We'll take you up to Florence and George's" he said. "I haven't been up there in years."
**
I could see the silhouette of a cabin down the road on the right. Light played through the trees, flickering and dancing.
"This is it, see the sign?" Larry said, pointing to the neatly lettered sign above the cabin door, "Little Flower". "Florence always liked that saint, wasn't it St. Theresa, the Little Flower?" (Ours was a very deeply Irish Catholic family and community.)
I didn't need the sign. I knew this place. The feel and the smell - the peace. I knew the way the roof slope matched the slope of the hill behind, and where the big wood stove sat, how the side door let out onto a small fenced yard scattered with blue bachelor buttons. All these angles and joinings were etched into my heart. It was still neatly kept, newly painted, now with a small deck in front. No one was there and there were no "Keep Out" signs. We got out of the pickup and crawled through the barbed wire fence.
It was good to be on that small piece of earth again. I walked around, taking it in. Pale wild roses still twined along the fence. The bench lodged between two big alders was still in place. The outhouse, a source of much teasing among the boy cousins, stood a bit farther back, the neat half moon carved in the door. Aspens whispered the soft summer wind through their branches, and the stream winked and sparkled in the late afternoon sun. A cow bawled at a ranch down the road.
I thought about family and what the word means, and what we value about it. For a long time, I had been leery of anything "family". Just sentiment, I thought. And trouble. I was wrong. This was it. Sweet remembrance of happy times. I sat down on the bench between the alders and I heard Edna's soft laugh and felt her gentle hand on my shoulder. I saw Cliff dealing the cards, pipe clamped in his teeth, teasing and prodding Florence to play. Larry, on one of the bunks reading a comic book, was almost hidden in the down comforter. And I was outside, sitting on the porch with knees pulled up, watching the swallows weave over the creek, the red-streaked clouds to the west marking the sunset.
I heard the laughter.
**
The sun was low in the sky, its rays slanted out below purple-black thunder clouds that had stacked up in the distance. Summer days around Great Falls often bring brief, saturating afternoon storms. The shallow fords in the Highwoods become fast, low-voiced and deep, as heavy rains wash the steep surrounding hills.
Mary joined me by the stream in the aspen grove. Early evening mist was forming and a soft, muzzy greyness filled the deep, fragrant shade. A thrush called, his lilting, ascending call echoing through the trees over the stream.
"Glad you came?" She asked, leaning lightly against me.
I didn't trust my voice. I nodded and put my arm around her shoulders.
Larry tapped the horn in the Chevy. We turned and walked back slowly through the deep green grass to join him.
It tells of a treasured part of my childhood.
Heartwood
"It seemed to me, as I kept remembering all this, that those times and and those summers had been infinitely precious and worth saving. There had been jollity and peace and goodness."
Once More to the Lake E. B. White
The big Chevy pickup bumped slowly along the uneven Forest Service road. My cousin, Larry, his wife Mary and I were squeezed into the front cab. It was a hot, beautiful early August day in the Highwood Hills.
"You know, Suz, there's no guarantee the cabin's still standing. It could have been torn down or couldn've fallen down by now," Larry said. He glanced at me quickly, taking his eyes from the uneven road. "Florence and George's kids sold off the lease a few years after they died."
Empty MacDonald's sacks, all that remained of lunch, rattled under my feet. Mary held a Pepsi high to keep it from spilling as we rocked along the washboard road. We were thirty miles from Great Falls, Montana, surrounded by wild land. Quaking aspens leaned over the gravel road, their green leaves trembling in the warm wind. Fields of wild flowers nodded in drifts of yellow, purple and blue. A sapsucker hammered a fencepost near the road. Red head flashing, he peered around the post as we rumbled past. Steep hills rose around us in every direction with dark fir groves lining the canyons between. Sparkling creeks ran carelessly over low spots in the road; fords that now looked innocent and inviting.
"We're getting close. There's the old ranger's cabin. Remember how he used to ride by on the big Palomino?" Larry pointed to a tiny rustic cabin tucked into the trees on the left.
I leaned forward in my seat, trying hard to see around the next bend, at the same time reluctant to see what might have changed. I swallowed the lump in my throat.
**
I was nine years old in 1955, the first summer my mother sent me to her sister and brother-in-law in Great Falls. I was a quiet, bookish kid. I had spent little time outdoors at home in Oregon, due in part to a mother whose protective instincts could make a cow moose look careless. And home was not a very happy place. In Montana, things were diffenent. I didn't think much about the difference, I just knew I loved being there.
My cousin, Larry, was seventeen. I thought he looked just like a movie star. He wore white jeans and white T-shirts with the sleeves rolled up to show his biceps. He drove a convertible, had a girlfriend named Sally (with a ponytail like mine), and they could do the swing. His life seemed full of parties by the river, dances and general hell-raising. "Hey, Suz," he would say, flashing his white smile and giving my hair a gentle tug as he breezed into the cool house after his summer job. He couldn't have been more exotic.
His mother, Edna was my mother's elder sister. She was soft spoken, gentle, witty and had a sweet laugh I could listen to forever. I'm told that I'm a lot like Edna now- I'm happy with that. She did her housework wearing my father's castoff rayon bowling shirts over her old dresses. My mother used to include the shirts in our Christmas boxes, for some reason. I can still see Edna, dust rag in hand, humming around the dining room in a faded yellow shirt, Chet embroidered on the left breast pocket and Schumaker Optical scrolled in green on her back.
My uncle's name was Clifford, but we always called him Uncle Lover. Not even Larry remembers the origin of that nickname. Another family mystery. Cliff was a gentlemanly Welshman who seemed incapable of committing any impropriety. Yet Uncle Lover he was, looking very much like David Niven strolling home down the shaded backyard path after a day's work at Montana Hardware.
Close friends of Edna and Cliff held a ninety-nine year lease on a cabin on Federal forest land in the Highwoods, a ridge of wooded mountains outside of Great Falls. My first visit there was over the July 4th weekend that summer of 1955. The cabin is a little less than an hour's drive from Great Falls, but for me it was a trip into a new and beautiful world. Driving the shady, forested road to Florence and George's cabin that first time: it opened my eyes and heart to the peaceful woods- a place I've held dear ever since.
The cabin is nestled in a small grove of aspens, backed by a steep slope where fir and pine make an orderly march down to the creek that runs along the east side of the property. A fire ring waits out back, complete with a circle of stump seats. When evening fell and the fire came alive, we would step out of the firelight to see the bats circle and hear nighthawks cry as they threaded among the stars. There was pine smell mixed with wood smoke and bacon, mousy scurrying noises that may have been mice but probably were my cousins trying to scare Edna. There was laughing, card playing, fishing, cooking and eating. There was jollity, peace and goodness.
I visited the cabin every summer for a handful of years. I was in my early teens the summer of my last visit and I hadn't been back to Montana since then. But the gift of the peaceful woods was one that I have treasured all of my life.
**
I picked up the phone one day a fewmonths ago, and heard "Hey, Suz". Almost forty years evaporated in the time it took to take a breath. Larry and I spent two hours catching up.
"I want to come and see you." It was out of my mouth before I could think too hard about it.
"We'll take you up to Florence and George's" he said. "I haven't been up there in years."
**
I could see the silhouette of a cabin down the road on the right. Light played through the trees, flickering and dancing.
"This is it, see the sign?" Larry said, pointing to the neatly lettered sign above the cabin door, "Little Flower". "Florence always liked that saint, wasn't it St. Theresa, the Little Flower?" (Ours was a very deeply Irish Catholic family and community.)
I didn't need the sign. I knew this place. The feel and the smell - the peace. I knew the way the roof slope matched the slope of the hill behind, and where the big wood stove sat, how the side door let out onto a small fenced yard scattered with blue bachelor buttons. All these angles and joinings were etched into my heart. It was still neatly kept, newly painted, now with a small deck in front. No one was there and there were no "Keep Out" signs. We got out of the pickup and crawled through the barbed wire fence.
It was good to be on that small piece of earth again. I walked around, taking it in. Pale wild roses still twined along the fence. The bench lodged between two big alders was still in place. The outhouse, a source of much teasing among the boy cousins, stood a bit farther back, the neat half moon carved in the door. Aspens whispered the soft summer wind through their branches, and the stream winked and sparkled in the late afternoon sun. A cow bawled at a ranch down the road.
I thought about family and what the word means, and what we value about it. For a long time, I had been leery of anything "family". Just sentiment, I thought. And trouble. I was wrong. This was it. Sweet remembrance of happy times. I sat down on the bench between the alders and I heard Edna's soft laugh and felt her gentle hand on my shoulder. I saw Cliff dealing the cards, pipe clamped in his teeth, teasing and prodding Florence to play. Larry, on one of the bunks reading a comic book, was almost hidden in the down comforter. And I was outside, sitting on the porch with knees pulled up, watching the swallows weave over the creek, the red-streaked clouds to the west marking the sunset.
I heard the laughter.
**
The sun was low in the sky, its rays slanted out below purple-black thunder clouds that had stacked up in the distance. Summer days around Great Falls often bring brief, saturating afternoon storms. The shallow fords in the Highwoods become fast, low-voiced and deep, as heavy rains wash the steep surrounding hills.
Mary joined me by the stream in the aspen grove. Early evening mist was forming and a soft, muzzy greyness filled the deep, fragrant shade. A thrush called, his lilting, ascending call echoing through the trees over the stream.
"Glad you came?" She asked, leaning lightly against me.
I didn't trust my voice. I nodded and put my arm around her shoulders.
Larry tapped the horn in the Chevy. We turned and walked back slowly through the deep green grass to join him.
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